


Mark the Idiot

by FancyMeetingYouHere



Series: The Bodyguard [4]
Category: GOT7
Genre: BamBam is the sweetest, BamBam's party time, Fluff and Angst, I love him, M/M, Markson!!! (sort of), and not so fun time, and oblivious, and too careful, boys being angsty, i will protect him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23311135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyMeetingYouHere/pseuds/FancyMeetingYouHere
Summary: Maybe it's not just a job. Maybe Jackson's not just a boss.And maybe Mark's got less time to figure his shit out than he thought, because maybe he's not just a guard either.
Relationships: Mark Tuan/Jackson Wang
Series: The Bodyguard [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631491
Comments: 51
Kudos: 79





	Mark the Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> I AM HAVING WAY TOO MANY PLOT-BUNNIES!!! Seriously, this whole quarantine thing is random and slightly boring, but all the forced free time means my head DOES NOT STOP spitting out new story ideas. It's causing way too many delays and I'm very sorry for this. 
> 
> Anways, tiny rant over: please enjoy this latest installment of Markson loving each other and being oblivious about it and BamBam being way too cute. If you could leave a comment to tell me what you think, you'd make my day!!  
> (Also, please don't worry. I'm steadily feeling better and writing more. All is well with me!)

The first rule is don’t get attached.

The second is don’t fall in love.

Mark is an idiot, because he broke them both.

It takes too long for him to notice, too long for him to realize just how far he’s fallen, but by then he’s in much too deep to do anything about it. Despite promising himself he’d never do it again, that he’d keep love out of his job no matter what, past-him hadn’t counted on BamBam’s puppy-dog eyes and Jackson’s general existence.

Mark fell. _Hard_.

Jimin’s appearance is a harsh wake-up call, the guard spending every waking minute with Jackson and causing Mark’s blood to boil. Not that he wants to leave BamBam alone, but still. Jimin is with Jackson _all the time_. They seem to be fast friends after the first week, which is definitely not causing any jealousy. Mark’s simply worried, because guarding someone doesn’t mean befriending them. BamBam’s an exception (the kid is eight and utterly adorable) but Jackson needs a professional around him, not some baby-faced boy who is admittedly very good at his job while making Jackson laugh as if they’re friends for life.

Mark is bitter and he hates it.

Jaebeom isn’t being any help either.

“Stop stressing,” the other tells him with a yawn over the phone when Mark calls him at eleven on a Thursday. He’d been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling without the smallest of hints that sleep is on its way, worries gnawing incessantly at his stomach. His friend isn’t in any way sympathetic.

Mark huffs, eyes narrowed at the darkness. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Don’t give me lip,” Jaebeom grouches. “You’re the one waking me up with your damn love-troubles.”

“I’m not some sulky teenager.” Mark counters, getting fed-up with Jaebeom’s insistence that it’s all ‘fine’. “You know how emotions can fuck everything up, and if anything happens to BamBam because I’m too busy _not_ paying attention to Jackson-” he can’t finish that sentence, his stomach contracting at the mere thought.

Jaebeom sighs. “This is about Taewon, isn’t it?”

Most definitely, but Mark isn’t one for late-night heart-to-hearts. He scoffs, squirming under his sheets when the name brings a truckload of memories he could do without. “No,” he lies, stubborn. “I’ve been hired to do a job and if I feel like I can’t do that job then I shouldn’t be-”

“Do you want to quit?” Jaebeom cuts in incredulously, igniting something fierce in Mark’s lungs when the words weasel their way into his brain.

“No!” he shouts, then remembers he’s on the phone. “I’m not leaving BamBam alone.”

“Then what do you want? Because either you let someone else do it, or you stop living in the past and realize that this _isn’t_ like Taewon _at all._ I’d recommend that second one, but it’s up to you.”

Mark bristles. “I told you, this isn’t-”

“Yes, it is! And the sooner you realize that, the sooner I can go back to sleep!” Now Jaebeom is getting mad, voice hissing into the phone. It does nothing for the anger Mark is trying to keep down at being continuously called out about one of the worst fuck-ups in his life.

“Go sleep, then,” he snaps. Without waiting for an answer he hangs up, throwing the phone down on the covers and glaring at the ceiling. “Fuck you,” he whispers hoarsely, though the jury is out about who he’s cussing at; Jaebeom or himself?

He eventually dozes off somewhere in the early-morning hours. When he wakes up to his blaring alarm, there’s a hollow in his stomach, right arm reaching out in his sleep as if to catch something long gone.

The following day seems only too happy to continue this funk Mark’s life has fallen into. Due to reasons he isn’t even going to try and comprehend (but mostly having to do with Jackson being strangely persistent and BamBam’s excellent use of puppy-dog eyes), Mark finds himself wishing a hole will swallow him up as he stands guard next to a clothing stall. He groans as BamBam chirps from the other side of the heavy, cream-colored curtain.

“Can you hand me the turquoise one?” His little hand pokes out, grabbing at the air, and Mark doubts he’s being paid enough to do _this._

“BamBam,” he hisses, begrudgingly stuffing the piece of clothing into the boy’s waiting hand. “I’m _not_ your personal _assistant,”_ he stresses for the third time. Two women sitting a little further down are already given him wary looks, whispering behind their hands. The merry music coming from the store’s speakers drowns out what they’re speculating, but Mark still fights a blush with all he’s got. He may need to guard BamBam at all times, but taking the boy _shopping_ is certainly pushing it. Especially when the little rascal sees fit to use him as a clothes rack because ‘I need to try them all on anyway and this’ll be faster’.

Mark regrets all his choices leading up to this, though refuses to let it show as he stands calmly in front of BamBam’s stall, four more child-sized suits draped over his arm.

Jackson called right after school to announce he and BamBam had been invited to a dinner party that night, and after some squealing and begging, BamBam had weaseled his way into this impromptu shopping trip. Mark can’t leave BamBam alone outside of school, nor can he deny him living his strangely stylistic life. Cue Mark dying of embarrassment.

The women burst into giggles, hiding their faces, and Mark bites his cheek in frustration. They’ve been through five suits already. It’s honestly a small miracle the store is relatively empty, but Mark fears that won’t last too much longer now.

“Ugh,” BamBam sighs from behind the curtain, then his hand appears again. “Give me the white one, please.”

_Breathe_ , Mark reminds himself as he stuffs the mentioned piece into the boy’s hand. _Killing your charge would be very counter-productive._ It doesn’t hamper his desire to throw BamBam over his shoulder and march them both back to the car. This store is much too brightly lit for Mark to be in any way comfortable with its overly tranquil music trickling from the speakers. His job relies on shadows and surprise, yet everything here is magnified to a hundred. It sets him on edge.

Mark doesn’t like _shopping_.

An excited squeal comes from behind him and he almost sags in relief. _Finally._

The curtains are yanked away just as he turns, BamBam grinning widely as he struts out to admire himself in the wall-length mirror just off the side. For an eight-year-old, he’s insanely adept at pretending he’s on a catwalk. Mark rolls his eyes.

“We done?” He asks maybe a _little_ too snarky. BamBam pouts at him.

“I was just having _fun,_ ” he answers petulantly, crossing his arms.

Mark quirks one side of his mouth, taking in the sight of a tiny, petulant BamBam in an equally as tiny white suit. It’s adorable and strangely fitting. Mark snorts.

“Obviously, but we have to get going if you want to make dinner on time.”

BamBam frowns. “We still have an hour.”

Which is true, but Mark needs to get away from all these _lights_. He feels out of place just standing here.

“How about this,” he says, crouching down to look BamBam in the eye. “We go home and play some video games before your dad gets back. I promise it’ll be just as much fun as _this_.” He twirls a finger at the store in general and tries not to grimace.

BamBam, the little devil, smiles sweetly. “Okay. _After_ we get _your_ suit.” He’s already fleeing back into the clothing stall as he says it, Mark turning in his crouch to follow him with disbelieving eyes. He shoots up and glares at the closed curtain, faintly catching BamBam’s giggles.

“BamBam,” he starts tense, “we’re not here for me.”

“Yes, we are!” BamBam yells happily, startling the two women off to the side and Mark gives them a tight-lipped smile most likely nowhere near apologetic. He turns back to the curtain with narrowed eyes.

“No, we’re _not-“_

“Dad says so.” BamBam interrupts him, which, as Mark blinks in shock, the boy has _never_ done before. Then he rolls his eyes.

“He didn’t say anything of the sort, BamBam, I was there. Now, you have your suit, which means we’re gonna go home.”

BamBam’s hand comes poking out of the curtain again and for a horrible second Mark thinks the boy changed his mind, but then he spots the cellphone. BamBam jiggles the device, voice chirping happily.

“Dad says you need a suit!”

The women giggle again in the following silence and Mark contemplates kidnapping BamBam back to the house for at least the third time since they walked in. The phone is opened to BamBam’s app conversation with Jackson, clear words saying ‘get one for Tuan too’.

Mark opens his mouth, closes it, then sort of _stands there_ , fuming.

Fucking _Jackson Wang_.

“Told ya!” BamBam giggles, taking his phone back. “But don’t worry. I already have an idea of what color you need. I actually wanted to get _you_ a white one, but I figured you’d never agree to that. So, I’ll have a light suit, and then you and dad will be the opposite of me! We’ll look great!”

Mark doesn’t know which god he pissed off recently, but the women at the end of the stalls don’t stop giggling, their daughter eventually emerging from her own stall with a smirk on her face. It seems the whole world is already laughing, and Mark can’t find a response beyond ‘fuck off’. He stays quiet. Cursing at BamBam won’t help.

Said boy throws open the curtains, once again in his own jeans and turtleneck sweater, white suit draped over his arm with a million-watt smile. Mark tries to reign in his glower and brings up a finger.

“One suit,” he grouches. “I’ll put on _one.”_ He’s aware of the six discarded ones hanging in BamBam’s stall and the other four still on his arm. The boy smiles wider.

“Two,” he counters, “and I get to pick which one you get.”

His life has come to bargaining with an eight-year-old about trying on suits and Mark almost laughs at himself. How does he keep finding himself in these situations? He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, bringing up a reluctant second finger. Then he looks imploringly at a still much too happy BamBam.

“Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll try on two, but then we’re _going home.”_

“I get to pick!”

“Yes, BamBam,” he breathes hopelessly, his pride cackling from where it abandoned him at the entrance of the store, “you get to pick.”

BamBam preens.

(Funnily enough, BamBam’s endless joy and enthusiasm somehow make the whole ordeal worth it and Mark ends up with a dark maroon suit. The boy insists a black turtleneck is a better choice than a black dress-shirt, and Mark goes along with it. It’s not like he cares much either way.)

When they get back to the house, BamBam’s in high spirits, yapping on about how tonight is going to be ‘the best night ever!’. Mark doesn’t share the sentiment, but can’t help smiling at his charge’s happiness. BamBam’s smile only grows when they get inside and the smell of cooked meat and stew hits them in the face. Mark blinks confused, then checks his watch even though he knows it’s barely half past five.

Dinner isn’t until six-thirty and Cheongbin, the cook, never starts this early. They take off their shoes and BamBam races to the kitchen, leaving Mark to put their purchases on the living room couch. As he does, an excited scream comes from the kitchen.

“Dad!”

Mark turns, surprised, when familiar laughter follows. Jackson isn’t supposed to be home until six. He quietly makes his way to the kitchen, eyebrows shooting up when he spots Jackson standing in front of the stove. The tantalizing aroma comes from a big pot Jackson is stirring, beef in a creamy sauce, while BamBam is on the man’s hip as an overgrown toddler.

Mark needs to _breathe_. His heart does a strange swoop when BamBam waves at him, laughing.

“Dad made dinner!”

Which is obvious, but Mark still freezes in the doorway when Jackson turns to him, smile on his face and spatula in hand. The man is in nothing but a pants suit and white dress-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbow, and Mark has seen this sight at least a dozen times. But considering recent revelations, there’s something extra about Jackson’s smile, about BamBam’s happiness, about the damn _stupid_ spatula.

Mark freezes and fumbles, aware he’s staring and unable to stop. He blinks and shakes his head, dropping his eyes to the pan of food. _What the-_

Jackson sniggers. “Yeah, I think I kinda overshot it with the meat. But in my defense, I haven’t ever really cooked for three.”

“But I-” Mark blinks and clears his throat, forcing himself back into functioning. “I eat after my shift.” To BamBam’s endless annoyance, but Mark doesn’t think he’ll survive nightly dinners with the boy given how attached he’s already become. Jackson sighs as he puts BamBam down, the boy never dropping his wide grin.

“I know, but considering I’m making you work late tonight, I figured you wouldn’t have time to do that. Hence-” he nods at the puttering dish on the stove, a small smile on his face. Something on Mark’s face makes him laugh (Mark thinks he has to look constipated with how confused he feels) and Jackson turns off the heat with a snigger. “I promise I won’t poison you, Tuan. We still need you tonight, after all.”

BamBam nods vigorously, grabbing Mark’s hand and yanking him into the kitchen with his entire bodyweight. (Hardly enough to get Mark moving, but he follows anyway because it’s BamBam and he might be reeling just a little because _Jackson Wang_ cooked him dinner. What the actual fuck is happening…)

“Dad’s food is awesome,” BamBam promises with a smile. “You’ll love it!”

And he does, because Mark realizes too late he should have declined even though Jackson’s his boss, and by then he’s standing at the kitchen island, one plate of soft rice and steaming stew in front of him while BamBam chatters in between bites and Jackson nurses his own plate. It’s a strange do-over from the ice-cream shop and Mark shovels food into his mouth if only to be left out of the conversation he can’t believe he’s even a part of. _Again._

(Jackson Wang is a good cook, and Mark _really_ could have gone without ever knowing that.)

After dinner, BamBam skips to his room to ‘go change’. Mark frowns at his watch, noting it’s barely six.

“Isn’t it a bit early-” he starts confused, only to suddenly find Jackson’s finger on his lips, the man shushing him urgently from across the counter. Butterflies explode in Mark’s stomach. He blinks at the hand on his face, quiet more out of shock than anything else.

Jackson’s eyes shine with glee, seemingly oblivious to Mark’s system-reset.

“It’s a surprise party,” Jackson whispers, _finally_ taking his hand away. “Namjoon helped me set it up, for BamBam’s birthday.” The man is smiling like the sun, eyes focused on Mark.

He can only nod, mental functions still lagging as Jackson’s touch lingers in his thoughts. Then he swallows and throws out a grunt of acknowledgment. Jackson smiles wider.

“So just, pretend this is all normal for a fancy gala, okay?” he still whispers, eyes pleading.

Mark nods again, finally finding words in the scramble of his thoughts. “Okay.” He clears his throat, noting his pitch is a little higher than it should have been. Then the coins start to drop, delayed by whatever the _fuck_ just happened. Mark cracks a grin.

“So, the suit,” he wonders in a low voice, already shaking his head at a guilty looking Jackson. The man sniggers.

“Yeah,” he confesses. “BamBam loves that kind of stuff. I’m sorry for throwing you under the bus, but I couldn’t get off any sooner.” He truly looks apologetic, as if spending time with BamBam is some sort of punishment.

Mark snorts. “Oh, he definitely enjoyed himself.” Then he quirks an eyebrow. “But his birthday is still two weeks away?”

“Well yeah, but with everything going on I don’t really want to do things other people might expect, you know.” His confession drags his mouth down, expression suddenly grim. Then he huffs. “That must sound really sad to you, I’m sorry.”

And if everything else hadn’t been enough of a clue, the sudden urge to grab Jackson’s hand and hold him if only to make the lines on his face disappear are a dead give-away. Mark’s chest is tight and heavy, heart constricting at the care present in Jackson’s actions concerning his son.

“It doesn’t,” he speaks earnestly, locking eyes with a strangely vulnerable-looking Jackson. Mark gives him a small smile, hoping to lift this heavy atmosphere. “It’s a pretty wise decision, though I am glad you told me _before_ we got there. Imagine my surprise if, instead of a fancy gala, I get bouncy-castles and a gaggle of kids.”

It has the desired effect when Jackson lets out a high laugh, head shaking. “Now I wish I hadn’t,” he grins at Mark. “You’re way too serious all the time, Mark. A surprise might’ve done you good.”

It has the curious effect of lighting Mark’s belly on fire with Jackson’s casual use of his first name, while simultaneously bringing a grimace to his face. “Please don’t,” he says. “Being serious is kind of my job and I _don’t_ like surprises.”

For an entirely different reason than Jackson probably thinks, but the other man doesn’t need to know about Mark’s strange tendencies born from years of paranoia and quite literally living by the second. It would probably ruin the easy mood.

Luckily, the other doesn’t ask, simply chuckles some more as he nods at the hallway. “How about you go change first,” he says as he stacks the plates. “My room’s the one across from BamBam’s. I’ll just clean up here.”

It’s hardly new information, but Mark nods in thanks anyway. He almost slips due to their earlier banter, something like ‘I’ll clean up’ on the tip of his tongue, then reminds himself Jackson is his _boss_ , and domesticity isn’t part of that deal. He’s already crossed enough lines for one night. With another grateful nod and apparently in the role of a sudden mute, Mark doubles back to grab the newly purchased suit, padding to Jackson’s room with a mass of emotions swirling in his gut.

_Get your shit together, Mark!_

He opens and closes the bedroom door, flicks on the light, then stops dead three steps in when the smell of _Jackson_ hits his nose and he shivers. CEO rooms always hold the same, freshly cleaned, sterilized smell, but Mark notes the crumpled sheets, shoes in disarray next to the door and yesterday’s clothes hanging over a chair. It seems Jackson isn’t done surprising him yet and Mark’s heartbeat doubles for no reason whatsoever.

The scent of Jackson occupies his thoughts no matter how much he battles through it. The king-sized bed is shoved into the corner on the right, the left wall holding a giant wardrobe spanning the entire width of it. There’s a soft blue, almost black rug and thick drapes hanging on either side of the single large window right in front of him. It overlooks the garden.

Mark’s never agreed with anyone’s style of decorating as much as he agrees with Jackson’s, and the thought is abandoned the second it comes up.

_He’s my boss, he’s my boss, he’s my boss_ , Mark hopelessly reminds himself as he strips, dropping his normal suit on the floor without care and fishing the new one out of its cover. He sighs as he looks at it, rolling his eyes at this whole situation, then he quickly slips into the pants and turtleneck. It fits perfectly, Mark made sure. There’s nothing worse than being constantly distracted by ill-fitting clothes when he’s working. It’s not like he can’t tune it out, but the lingering annoyance just gets tiring after a few hours.

He shrugs on the jacket and gathers up his discarded clothes, fitting them into the cover. Then he’s done. He moves his arms up and around, tests the range of movement of his legs (a little hampered, but nothing too horrible) then finds himself lingering in the middle of Jackson’s bedroom. His eyes are drawn to the picture frames on the bedside table showing an even tinier version of BamBam smiling at the camera. One also holds Jackson, the man carrying BamBam’s excited body on his shoulders with a smile that takes Mark’s breath away. It was probably taken a few years ago judging by BamBam’s stature, and Mark finds himself glowing when he looks at it. The sudden desire to take the picture with him snaps him out of it, ice spreading through his belly when he realizes what he’s doing.

“Just a job,” he sternly reminds himself as he snaps his gaze to the floor. He shakes his head and snatches his old suit from where he draped it on the bed.

_Bad thoughts._

A knock on the door stops him some three steps from it, Jackson’s voice coming through the wood hesitantly.

“Tuan? Can I come in?”

His last name drains away the doubt in his thoughts, Mark narrowing his eyes at his own stupidity. This whole situation is ridiculous. It’s _Jackson’s_ room. Mark crosses the distance quickly and opens the door with a thankful smile and a respectful nod. “All done,” he assures.

Jackson doesn’t respond. His eyes travel the length of Mark’s figure slowly, starting at his face and going down, then the man frowns.

Mark smiles tight-lipped, unsure what to do with Jackson’s silence. “Like I said, BamBam _enjoyed himself_ with all this,” he says as a way of explaining, gesturing at the over-the-top suit. Jackson jumps in surprise, then quickly snaps his eyes up and steps sideways when he realizes he’s been blocking the doorway.

“It looks great!” His voice cracks on the last word, and Mark huffs.

“I look like a show-pony, but thank you.”

Jackson nods in response, eyes suddenly everywhere but Mark. It’s a complete opposite of their earlier conversation, and after another awkward silence Mark steps out of the doorway and into the hall.

“I’ll wait in the car,” he tells Jackson, to which the other snorts.

“Go sit on the couch,” he says with some of his usual banter, though his eyes stay rooted to something on Mark’s left. “BamBam’ll take another twenty minutes at least, and Jimin’s driving us so you’re not chauffeuring tonight.”

Mark perks up in surprise. “He is?”

Jackson nods, quickly slipping into his room. “He’ll be here at fifteen past,” he informs Mark in a rushed voice before he shuts the door, leaving the guard somewhat stumped.

Jackson sure does switch from overly confident to completely introverted in 0,2 seconds. Not something Mark has spotted much of before. It’s somewhat endearing.

Because Mark really needs more reasons to like Jackson Wang.

With a groan he stomps to the living room, suddenly out of place as he sinks onto the couch to _wait._ He’s exceedingly aware he’s been dressed up and asked to come along more as a favor for BamBam than just protection, and the happy bubble in his chest is both heaven and hell.

He needs to do a job, needs to do it _well_ , but can’t help getting lost in the sudden fantasy of him and Jackson taking BamBam to his ninth birthday party. It sinks into his stomach, the giddy joy seeping through his body as he realizes that’s _exactly_ what this looks like. What it _feels_ like.

The last time he mixed love and his work was way before he became a guard, before he even knew Jaebeom and JYP, and it caused Mark to lose the two people he would have given anything for. Taewon and Dongwook. The only ones Mark was able to trust between his eighteenth and twenty-third years of life.

“What are you doing,” he whispers tiredly at the empty living room, eyes falling on paintings from a young BamBam proudly presented on the walls, to a picture of Jackson and BamBam sitting on a picnic blanket both sporting ice-creams and winning smiles.

Mark’s heart swells, then immediately fills with dread. He bites his lip and drops his head back, staring despondently at the ceiling. “You don’t make the same mistake twice,” he mumbles.

Jaebeom’s voice from his memories admonishes him that this is _nothing_ like then, nothing to do with subterfuge and the smell of sand and gunpowder assaulting Mark’s nose. This is different, new, and therefore possibly more precious because it’s a second chance, one Mark cannot afford to mess up.

So, now what?

_Leave or stay,_ Mark wonders over and over, sitting inside the home of his two precious people. _Leave or stay, what do I do?_


End file.
